


Thorta Du Ilumëo

by Kefi



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Psychological Trauma, Torture, Trauma, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26711272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kefi/pseuds/Kefi
Summary: Following the Siege of Dras-Leona, Murtagh and Thorn launch a successful attack against the Varden. During the fight, Eragon falls from Saphira’s back, and Thorn uses the momentary distraction to both wound Saphira and knock Arya unconscious. Murtagh, who originally planned to capture Nasuada, decides to take advantage of this rare opportunity, and during the chaos, Thorn and Murtagh manage to seize Eragon and spirit him away to Urû'baen. Canon non-compliant fic detailing Eragon’s capture, trials, and eventual rescue.
Relationships: Arya Dröttningu/Eragon Shadeslayer
Comments: 24
Kudos: 39





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter is based heavily on Nasuada’s capture, as detailed in Inheritance. Trigger warnings for canon-typical graphic violence and torture.

Eragon opens his eyes.

The first thing he notices is the pounding in his head; an almost percussive agony that brings him more fully to awareness. His thoughts, however, feel thick and slow, as if he were drunk with exhaustion. Turning his head makes the pain worse, so instead he stares with detached interest at the roof above him.

Tiles cover the dark, vaulted ceiling, and upon the tiles are painted angular patterns of red, blue, and gold: a complex matrix of lines that trap his gaze for a mindless while.

The soft crackle of a smoldering fire draws his attention, and at last he musters the will and energy to look away from the intricate designs. A simmering glow emanates from a source somewhere behind him, and he senses more than sees that the illumination is due to a brazier nearby. The glow is just strong enough to reveal the shape of the octagonal room, but not so bold as to dispel the shadows clinging to its corners.

Finally, he looks down, and notices the surface upon which he’s been restrained. It’s cold, smooth, and uncomfortably hard; the rough stone chafes irritably against his exposed hands and legs. A chill creeps into his bones, and he finds himself wishing for something warmer than the tattered tunic and loose trousers he had been wearing whilst drinking with Arya. Eyeing his lower half, he also realizes that he is weaponless, a fact that is unsurprising but disappointing all the same. Chances are, both his bow and _Brisingr_ still lay on the grassy knoll near Dras-Leona where he fell.

_But where am I now?_

With immense caution, he pushes his mind out- or tries to- but to his alarm, he only feels a soft, indistinct pressure surrounding him. It’s as if bales of wool are packed around his mind, and he finds that he can neither extend his consciousness outward, nor access the part of himself that houses his magic.

He’s unsure if he’s been drugged, but if this were done by magic, it was a magic that was completely unknown to him.

Eragon shudders, then tries to sit upright, but the padded manacles that he now sees encircle his limbs prevent him from moving more than a fraction of an inch in any direction. He furrows his brow and realizes that a thick leather belt holds his head firmly against the slab as well, preventing him from turning it more than a few degrees.

Even though he knows it’s futile, he strains against the bonds with all his strength, but they are too secure for even him to break. It’s this realization that causes him to truly panic.

Eragon allows himself a few moments of chest-heaving, muscle-trembling terror before he forces himself to calm, one carefully-controlled breath at a time. The only power he has in this situation is self-control, and he is not about to relinquish it willingly.

The pace of his breaths slow further. The regular, smooth flow through his throat and nostrils begins to crowd out all else. Then, once he’s reasonably certain he is not going to come undone, he allows his gaze to wander once more.

Turning his head what little it can, he glances out the window beside him, neck muscles straining with the effort. To his shock, he actually recognizes the landscape from a fairth he had studied while in Ellesmera.

He’s in Urû'baen.

His heart rate spikes once more, and he quickly loses what little hard-won composure he had gained.

Eragon is still working to calm his erratic breaths when he hears the footsteps in the hallway. His sensitive hearing picks them up easily: a group, some marching in rhythm, some not. The cacophony is so great that he’s unable to determine their exact number, nor their exact distance from him.

The second query is soon answered when the procession approaches, stopping directly outside the doorway to his chamber. There’s quiet murmuring, followed by two sets of clacking footsteps- the product of hard-soled riding boots, he guesses- then a single man enters the room.

The door closes with a hollow thud, and Eragon flinches.

Down the stairs the footsteps come, steady and deliberate. In his arms, the man carries a chair and places it somewhat near the brazier, his body only visible in Eragon’s periphery.

Silence reigns as he fills the copper brazier with charcoal, but then he moves it closer to the slab, closer to Eragon, and the motion produces a painful _screech_ that drives into his ears like nails. Being well-restrained, all Eragon can do is cringe inwardly and watch, transfixed. The man takes flint and steel from the pouch on his belt and lights a nest of shredded tinder in the center of the brazier. The sparks smolder and spread, and the tinder glows like a ball of red-hot wires. Then, he bends, blowing on the incipient fire, and the sparks spring into lambent flames.

The man is not large: not fat, but broad-shouldered. A long black cape hangs draped around his well-built frame. Light from the coals cast his form in shadow, his features too dark to make out, even with Eragon’s advanced senses. Still, the shadows do nothing to obscure the outline of the sharp, pointed crown resting upon his brow, and they similarly fail to conceal the three long irons now resting in the heating coals.

Finally, the man drops into the chair with a near-silent exhale. 

One by one, he tugs on the fingers of his gauntlets, then pulls off his gloves. Tossing them carelessly aside, they land with a soft thump of hide on stone. Underneath the gloves, Eragon notices, the man’s hands are the color of tarnished bronze.

Then, the man speaks. His voice is low, rich and commanding, and Eragon shivers again. His skin prickles uncomfortably and he finds himself thinking of Elva, of all people, and her authority over people’s minds. He has no doubt that he is now in the presence of the king.

“Welcome to Urû’baen, Eragon, son of Morzan,” Galbatorix intones. “Welcome to this, my home, ‘neath these ancient piled rocks. Long has it been since a guest as distinguished as yourself has graced us with their presence. My energies have been occupied elsewhere, but I assure you, from now on, I shall not neglect my duties as host.”

The fire crackles menacingly as if to underscore the hard steel underlying the king’s tone, his words. Galbatorix leans forward, and Eragon can feel the weight of his gaze: boring into him, assessing, scrutinizing.

“You are younger than I expected. I knew you had recently come of age, but still, you are no more than a child.” He pauses for a moment, as if in thought. “Most seem as children to me these days. Foolhardy children who know not what is best for them- children who need the guidance of those who are older and wiser.”

Eragon sets his chin, not wanting to show fear or vulnerability in front of the king.

“Such as yourself?” He asks in a scornful tone.

Galbatorix chuckles. “Would you rather the elves ruled over us? I am the only one of our race who can hold them at bay. By their reckoning, even our oldest graybeards would be considered untested youths, unfit for the responsibilities of adulthood.”

“And by their reckoning, so would you.” With each word, his fear melts away, replaced by pure defiance and bubbling fury.

The amusement in the king’s eyes angers Eragon, but he stays otherwise silent.

“Ah, but I contain more than my share of years. The memories of hundreds are mine, whispering their wisdom in my ears,” replies Galbatorix, smirking conspiratorially. “You especially should understand of what I speak.”

Eragon purses his lips and refuses to confirm what they both know is true.

Galbatorix allows the silence to settle for a moment, then gestures at the room with his gauntlets, continuing unperturbed. “This is a place for truths to be told… and heard. I will tolerate no lies within these walls, not even the simplest of falsehoods.”

The legs of the chair scrape over the floor, and Galbatorix’s breath suddenly wafts, warm against his ear. “I know this will be painful for you, Eragon Shadeslayer, painful beyond belief. You will have to unmake yourself before pride will allow you to submit. In all the world, nothing is harder than changing one’s own self. I understand this, for I have reshaped myself on more than one occasion. However, I will be here to hold your hand and help you through this transition. Although we do not have much time, you need not take this journey alone. And you may console yourself with the knowledge that I will never lie to you. Not within this room. Doubt me if you wish, but in time you will come to believe me. You may ask whatever you want, and I promise you, that I shall answer truthfully. As the king of these lands, I give you my sworn word.”

Eragon’s jaw clenches painfully, and from between clenched teeth, he spits, “I’ll never tell you what you want to know!”

A slow deep chuckle fills the room. “You misunderstand; You were not brought here because I seek information. There’s nothing you could say that I don’t already know. You have no secrets from me, none whatsoever; it is pointless to insist upon holding your tongue, for it will only cause you pain and suffering.”

“Why then?” he growls.

Galbatorix moves to better meet Eragon’s gaze with his own.

“Why did I have you brought here? Because, my son, you have gifts far deadlier than anything magic or man could create. You are here because you have proven yourself worthy of my attention. I wish to have you by my side. A new order is about to descend upon Alagaësia, and I would have you be part of it. Voluntarily, if I can.”

Eragon squints, not trusting the king’s words. “Are you not going to use your mind against me?”

He shakes his head. “I have other ways to break you, my son. I could easily seize control of your mind and force you to swear fealty to me, but instead, I would have you make this decision of your own free will, and while still in possession of your faculties. For now, I am satisfied to discover just how brave you really are, Eragon, son of the Forsworn.”

Eragon clenches his muscles to prevent the growing tremors in his arms and legs from becoming visible.

“The Varden are fast approaching, desperate to rescue their Rider, so I will have to do this efficiently, and in a much shorter time frame than I would prefer.” A wickedly devious smile stretches Galbatorix’ cheeks. “Take this, then, as a sign of my regard for you, Eragon, that I must inflict such suffering to assure victory.” His voice drops to a whisper as he leans in even closer. “I would not, however, wish to exchange places with you.” 

_This is my final duty: resisting my interrogation. I will not break._

“Now, before we begin,” croons Galbatorix. “I’ll ask you one last time: will you submit?”

Eragon thinks of Saphira, and his resolve hardens. “Never.”

“So be it. Let us begin.”


	2. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major trigger warnings for violence and dark themes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments/Kudos always appreciated.

Galbatorix speaks to Eragon whilst he readies the next series of tortures, an anguish that often transcends the physical and inevitably leads to torments of the mind. This ritual of waiting, of infinite anticipation is nearly as intolerable as his suffering at the king’s hand.

In part, this stems from the validity of Galbatorix’s arguments, for they are not baseless, and they inscribe in Eragon a doubt about magic and known reality that are difficult to shake. Namely, that magic unbalances the world. In that, the king’s point has merit, but it nonetheless leaves Eragon feeling conflicted, for such strong commonalities with his adversary were not expected. 

“...We are still reliant upon the very ones whose powers we seek to restrain. No, in order to solve this problem, it must be addressed on a deeper, more fundamental level. The ancients knew how that might be done, and now so do I,” says Galbatorix. “None shall be able to cast a spell unless they have permission, and only magics that are benign and beneficial shall be allowed. All will be bound by this precept, and they shall learn to measure their words carefully or speak not at all.”

“And who will grant this permission?” Eragon laughs, humorlessly. “Who will say what is allowed and what is not. You?”

“Someone must. Magic may not be a threat to me, but it is a threat to the functioning of this realm, and that I shall not tolerate. Alagaësia will be transformed, and with our newfound safety, we will build a more wondrous tomorrow, one you could be a part of.”

“Your _solution_ is to dress the problem in finery, and pretend it gone. We may have gilded the lily, but that does not change the fact that the flower underneath is worthy of life.” Eragon’s voice grows as his anger surges. “And you say ‘burn it all down’ but neglect to mention what you stand to gain as a result! Nay, I will never help you.”

For a moment, Galbatorix appears aggravated, as if he didn’t expect Eragon to lay challenge to his claim. But the pause is brief, and when he begins again, his voice takes on an alluring, captivating quality, its effect nearly visceral. 

“Enter my service, Eragon,” He breaths, “and you will have the opportunity to oversee the creation of a world such as has never existed before- a world where a man will stand or fall based upon the strength of his limbs and the keenness of his mind, and not whether chance has granted him skill with magic. Say no, and you lose everything. Refuse to join me, deny me in this vision, and _I will break you.”_

Eragon sets his chin, teeth gritted. “Vae weohnata ono vergarí, eka thäet otherúm.” _I will kill you, I swear it._

Now it is the king’s turn to laugh. “You will do no such thing. Not unless I permit it. Even if the Varden were to rescue you, to spirit you away from this hall, even then, you would never truly be free.” 

Galbatorix turns and pulls one of the iron rods from the coals, the tip banging against the copper bowl underneath as it is withdrawn. Sparks spray into the air as the iron comes free, and several glittering embers fall spiraling toward the floor like pine seeds from their cones. The end of the rod glows a bright, pale yellow that, even as he watches, darkens to a ruddy orange. 

Futile as it is, Eragon can not help but pull against his restraints as Galbatorix advances toward him. 

The rod descends, the tip like a giant sparkling ruby. 

Eragon has nothing to bite on to muffle his screams, so the eight-sided chamber reverberates with the sounds of his agony until his voice gives out and an all-consuming darkness envelops him in folds. _One._

The Ra’zac bear down on him, and he feels every cut, every mind-numbing jab from their razored beaks, the rot of their breaths. At times he screams and begs that the pain will end, but his pleading is for naught, and the fantastical torments continue. He tears at the air with his hands, twisting nearly in half as he tries to roll away from where he had been lying. Scrabbling backwards on bloodied hands and knees, he attempts once more to escape, but stumbles and falls to the ground. 

He can only watch with increasing terror as the Ra’zac approach, stalking their prey. Eragon’s chest heaves and his skin burns.

Then, suddenly, the scene changes. In his mind, a new tempest roars: a whirlwind of flashing blades and severed limbs. While he no longer bears the scars of the Ra’zac’s wounds, his body remembers the many other injuries he has suffered, and he shudders as he feels swords and arrows piercing his flesh. 

With a shapeless howl, Eragon falls to his knees and wraps his arms around his stomach, hugging himself as he rocks back and forth. He presses his forehead against the ground, curling into a hard, tight ball. He hears screaming, and though his head is bowed, his breath hot against his belly, he glimpses a nimbus of green magic soaring overhead. _Two._

Eragon flounders, struggling to resist being pulled under by the sudden deluge of water from above. He is unsuccessful, and within seconds, he is drowning. Closing his eyes, he disappears under a froth of bubbles, the cold water pummeling him into submission. The tremendous weight of the waterfall slams down on his shoulders with backbreaking force, the mindless roar filling his ears. Eragon is driven to the bottom, where his knees gouge the rocky lakebed, and before he can kick off with what little strength remains, before he can take a gulp of air, the cascade rams him back underwater. 

All he can see is a white blur as foam billows around him. He frantically tried to surface and relieve his burning lungs, but even thrashing his arms and legs does not aid his ascent, and he sinks back to the lakebed, unable to speak the ancient words that would save him. 

“Böetk rakr. _Thrysta,”_ murmurs an unknown voice from above, and the assault continues.

Trembling violently, his entire body shivering in bursts, Eragon learns how it feels to drown on dry land, again and again, in the hall of the Soothsayer. _Three._

With the pad of his thumb, Galbatorix pushes open the box’s sliding lid. Then he reaches inside and pulls out what appears to be a large, ivory-colored maggot. “This is the Burrow Grub. It is not what it appears to be.” 

The creature is almost three inches long, and it has a tiny mouth at one end, with which it utters a distinctive _skree-skree_ , as if announcing its displeasure to the world. It is plump and pleated, like a caterpillar, but if it has any legs, they are so small as to be invisible. 

The _skree-skree_ of the burrow grub increases in volume when Galbatorix drops it onto the bare skin of Eragon’s right arm, just below the elbow. He flinches as it lands, but still bends to inspect it when it begins to crawl around. The maggot is heavier than it looks, and its barbed underside grips him with a strength disproportionate to its size. 

The burrow grub squalls for a moment more; then it gathers up its body in a tight bundle and _hops_ several inches up his arm. 

Unable to dislodge the grub, even with the fiercest of movements, he is forced to watch, completely vulnerable to its whims.

Again it hops.

And again. Now it’s on his shoulder, the hooks pinching and digging into his skin. Its tiny mouth opens, and he sees that it has sharp, cutting mandibles behind its upper and lower lips. 

If circumstances were different, Eragon would have wished to examine it further.

“Not there,” Galbatorix whispers in the ancient language, before directing it toward Eragon’s shoulder. 

The grub pauses, as if listening, then worms its way back down his arm.

It pauses at the elbow. Eragon’s muscles convulse involuntarily. 

Then its fat, limbless body contracts, and it hops four, five inches straight up into the air and then dives headfirst toward the inner part of his elbow. 

As it lands, the burrow grub divides into a dozen small, bright green centipedes, which swarm over his arm before each choosing a spot to sink its mandibles into his flesh and bore its way through his skin.

He screams in agony, the pain too great to bear. Struggling against the restraints, unable to escape his torment, he can only watch idly as the centipedes’ tracks swell and fill with lines of purple blood that burn even more than the seizures from his back injury ever had.

Then at last he loses his pride and self control and cries out for mercy, babbling like a child for Saphira, for Arya, for _someone_ to rescue him. _Five._

Eragon’s head is forcibly tipped back as the poison- the Skilna bragh- is poured down his throat. He chokes, gagging on the bitter liquid, his insides instantaneously set aflame. He spasms, hands splaying against the cool marble, seeking the smallest respite from the fire, and unconsciously, his mind flits to thoughts of Arya: of her back like dry, cracked mud, layered with scabs and bruises, of the same darkness travelling through her veins as it now does his. All this he considers as the deceptively lethal toxin flays him alive, alighting every nerve ending from the inside and out, until finally, he retreats into the safety of darkness. Before he does, he manages one last coherent thought: How did Arya bear this torture for nearly a week? And how will I? _Thirteen._

An instant before it strikes, he hears the whip whistling through the air. The sound reminds him of flights with Saphira, her wings cutting a clean path through the sky, the shrill sounds of the wind… 

But then, the blow lands, and it feels as if a rod of hot metal has been laid across his flesh, his skin sensitized after laying on a cold slab for so long. Eragon arches his back, but is unable to prevent the whimper from slipping out. _Twenty Six._

The container itself is unremarkable. The only distinguishing marks being the ancient glyphs carved into the side. The smell is cloying- like the odor of rotting fruit. Eragon is already well-acquainted with sethr oil, with the chalky white pallor seen of its victims, of the clear liquid that oozes from wounds. He does not need nor want to familiarize himself with the caustic burn of one’s own skin peeling off, or the smell of bubbling flesh. But he does now, and it’s something he’s unlikely to ever forget. _Fifty Two._

Why the king chooses to use a hammer when magic is readily available to him, Eragon will never know. But, regardless, it is as effective a weapon as any other. The horribly satisfying _crunch_ as the hammer hits home, again and again, on his hands, his fingers, is at the very least illustrative. _Maybe Galbatorix knows it is Roran’s favored tool_ , Eragon thinks, between cracking hits. Or maybe Galbatorix finds a perverse pleasure in the intimacy this course of action affords him. _More likely._

Regardless, the king raises his arm once more with all the authority of Fate itself, and the blow falls. _One Hundred and Three._

This is my final duty: resisting my interrogation. I will not break. _One Fifty Nine._

This is my final duty. _Two Hundred and Forty Three._

This is…. _Three Hundred and Forty Two._

This…. _Four Hundred and Two._

“You… will.. Break,” purrs the king, his voice like warm honey. “Submit.”

Eragon laughs weakly, half-mad from the pain. Blood runs down his chin in little rivulets, and still, he shakes his head no.

“Then let us continue.”

  
  



	3. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title says it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a heckin' hard chapter to write, and I have no clue why. Took 3-4 rough drafts before I could even make it comprehensible. It's a little shorter than I wanted, but it gets the job done. Anyways, Kudos always appreciated, comments absolutely adored. 
> 
> You can follow my IC side-blog on tumblr inheritance-cycles. I'll be posting there as well!
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3

The antidote, Tunivor’s Nectar, had been forced between Eragon’s locked lips only minutes before, and was just beginning to take effect when he heard the commotion outside.

Immediately he disregarded the idea that it was the guardsmen, for he had long since learned the pattern of their movements. They made their rounds frequently, and the sound of their iron-shod boots marching, although often an impediment to his infrequent and rarely sought sleep, was distinctive enough to identify with full confidence. 

It had been days since Eragon had slept, and thus any change in his environment, no matter how small, was unlikely to escape his notice. He was exhausted, but still able to recount every second spent awake, which further bolstered the veracity of this conclusion. 

Even the waking dreams of his slumber, Eragon had decided, were too vulnerable of an indulgence to allow; Galbatorix may have said that he need not attack Eragon’s mind directly to break him, but exposing his essence while in such a helpless state was still too much of a gamble. 

So instead, Eragon spent the long hours floating at the edge of unconsciousness, the only relatively safe distraction he had found whilst in the hall of the Soothsayer. 

Physically, he laid, still heavily restrained, on the marble slab. His eyes half-lidded, body both shivering and sweating from the fever that had still not broken. The aftermath of torture, Eragon had found, was significantly more painful than the actual trials themselves in more ways than one.

It is thus explained that although his _person_ lay in the octagonal room, mentally, he remained decidedly enveloped in the vestiges of hallucination. 

The delusions were not overtly disturbing nor earth-shattering, but they nevertheless chipped away at Eragon’s capacity to reliably determine what was a product of the king’s elaborate deceptions, and what was a true facet of reality. 

The flickering depths of the fire, for instance, had long since morphed into fanciful images of creatures that never were, and never had been, yet Eragon made no attempt to dispel them from his subconscious. There, in the writhing inferno, he sought only solace in the illusory fragments of thoughts, sounds, and emotions drifting through him like snowflakes falling from a calm winter sky, regardless of whether they were truly genuine or not. 

This fact therefore rationalized why Eragon, though _capable_ of discerning that the noise outside his chamber was not the sentries in the midst of their rounds, made no further effort to deduce what else it could be. 

And it is also why, while lingering in this state, he does not dispute nor question her sudden, bewildering appearance.

The loud thud is what startles him back to awareness. That, followed by several moments of frantic scuffling in the hallway outside has Eragon turning his head to better hear the commotion. 

The clamor, surprisingly, is short lived, and after three _clangs_ of metal on metal followed by a few worrying _thuds_ , there’s total silence _._

 _I wonder what this delusion will bring,_ thinks Eragon.

The heavy wooden door swings open on well-oiled hinges, and a lone figure slips inside. For a brief moment, before the door clicks shut once more, he glimpses his slain guards, their blood pooling throughout the otherwise empty hallway. 

The horrors that used to affect him had long since lost their potency, and he finds himself almost disregarding the massacre before him. 

Rather, Eragon’s gaze fixes on the silhouette gliding soundlessly toward him, its outline indistinct. He blinks, hard, but the figure still remains, and although he distrusts the evidence of his own eyes, he cannot help but watch, fascinated, as the person approaches, slinking with a near feline grace. 

The unshaking feeling of _familiarity_ that bolts through Eragon unsettles him more than all else.

A cowl obscuring their features, the being at last arrives at the marble’s base, peering upward at his place of captivity overhead. Then, with a soft, uttered exclamation on their part, their hood is pushed back, falling around their shoulders. Eragon can finally make out the details of the person’s face, and he _gasps._

Or he would, if not for the severity of his injuries. Instead, all he emits is a quiet moan, and a trickle of blood gurgles from between his parted lips.

_Arya._

Her countenance appears impassive, but the slight widening of her emerald eyes reveals her alarm at his condition. They slide over his form, assessing, analyzing, studying. Then, with her chin held high, and without any further greeting, she begins to work. 

Eragon reaches for her hand, but the bones of his fingers are shattered and at odd angles to one another, so he only manages to brush against her wrist. She gently returns the gesture, her thumb stroking over one of the few uninjured areas of his palm, providing what comfort circumstances allow. Simultaneously, she efficiently triages his injuries, glancing behind her all the while to assure that nobody is coming. 

His eyes never leave hers as she tends to him. Eragon is drained, the spikes of throbbing pain causing him to lose awareness at times, yet despite his injuries, he feels more content than he ever has since arriving at Urû'baen. He is no longer alone.

For Arya, the opposite holds true. She labors frantically: the extensive damage requiring swift, decisive repairs and the voracious demands of healing necessitating a steady flow of energy. What otherwise would have consumed her life force several time’s over is made possible due to the still-dying men outside. With their remaining vitality reallocated, she is able to heal that which would have been life-threatening. 

Arya has just finished on his wind-pipe and vocal chords when she hears him mumbling. At first, it’s unintelligible, but then it resolves itself into actual words. Or, to be more accurate, one word. 

She leans closer to better hear him. 

“Five… Thirty.. Six…” he murmurs, gaze steady and unflinching. 

She throws him a concerned, questioning look, but proceeds with the healing, unable to spare the time to ask the significance of that number. 

Arya is unable to mend everything, even with the formidable quantity of energy she took from the sentinels, but it is thankfully enough to stabilize him for their escape. 

The last words of the spell have just left her lips when Eragon’s pain begins to fade. Stunned by his sudden release from agony, he sighs quietly: a release of pent up breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. Concurrently, Arya, without hesitation, uses the brief lull to break the chains and other restraints holding him captive. “Jierda!” she commands, and the manacles fall off him like dead leaves. 

Then, with all the grace of her kind, she deftly climbs the marble slab, and pauses, resting on her knees beside him. Her touch gentle, she guides him to the edge of the stone, steadying him when he nearly falls. 

The entire time Arya’s expression remains guarded, closed off.

She holds out her hand, offering assistance for the small drop to the ground, and she meets his eyes for a brief moment. And in that second of pure, non-verbal understanding, he sees the hard steel in her gaze, and senses that her careful exterior only serves to hide the turmoil roiling underneath. 

So without complaint, Eragon accepts her proffered hand. He doesn’t even argue when, with only the strength of her upper body, she lowers him to the ground as if he were a small child. He doesn’t argue when, after joining him on the floor below, she takes one of his arms, and loops it around her shoulders and supports most of his weight with surprising ease. He doesn’t complain that she’s treating him like the most fragile of glassware-

-for he had been very close to breaking. 

In this way, they head toward the largest hallway window: her chosen escape route. 

Eragon never moves his gaze from her face, and continues to stare even when she catches him looking. Fleetingly, her eyebrows draw together, an unspoken question, and all Eragon can do is whisper “you _came”_ in such an awed voice that tears are brought to her eyes and she _softens,_ suddenly and completely _._

She’s still struggling to regain control by the time they arrive at the base of the picturesque, stained glass opening. Eragon’s head is lolling against her shoulder, his hair tickling the skin of her neck. 

Glancing behind them one final time, she turns, and palm alight with green flame, shatters the window. Crystalline shards cascade to the earth below. 

In the ensuing silence, Arya turns to face him. Her face eases into the tenderest of smiles, and she raises three fingers, gently touching the side of his jaw. Her eyes shining from the force of her restraint, she whispers back in confirmation: “I came.” 

Then, she removes her hand from his face, hefts him effortlessly into her arms, and with one fluid movement, they jump. 

_Nobody escapes unless I allow it._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some important author notes:  
> -Murtagh let Arya into the castle, and also left the chamber door unlocked so she could get into Eragon's cell (his oath prevented him from directly rescuing Eragon).  
> -Galbatorix knew and planned that Eragon would escape in such a way. "You will never truly escape" was not a LITERAL statement  
> -Arya carried Eragon out the window bridal-style. :P (shout-out to tumblr blogger weirdponytail for that little gem!)


	4. Evasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eragon thinks he knows what's happening (he doesn't), Arya is convinced she has full control of the situation (she doesn't), and they both end up really needing a hug (next chapter).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos appreciated, comments loved. If I could, I would hug every one of you readers. <3 Thanks for sticking with me and this story.

If circumstances were different, the situation may have been humorous: the daughter of the elven queen cradling the first Rider in her arms as carefully as one would a newborn babe. 

Eragon chuckles quietly to himself, feeling a little unhinged as he imagines the riches a bard would make from chancing upon such a scene. 

_Maybe in the next one, if I’m lucky,_ he thinks.

He’s still snickering when they land less than a second later, Eragon’s head nestled in the space between Arya’s neck and shoulder, the familiar scent of crushed pine needles surrounding him. 

She loosens her grip, and after detangling himself from her hair, he slides out of her arms, stumbling slightly as he works to get his feet under him. 

Though Eragon is relieved to be outside the castle grounds, the unease roiling in his gut overpowers it, and almost immediately, he feels his good humor diminishing, replaced by an unshakable sense of foreboding.

Physically, he feels as if he is on a rocking boat, the ground unsteady beneath him. His quivering limbs barely hold his weight, and when Arya reaches out to steady him once more, her touch feather-light, he knows that she can feel the small but growing tremors that wrack his frame. 

She takes in his ashen complexion, the fever clear in his eyes, and her gaze softens, expression growing ever more concerned. 

But then in the distance, the bright sparks of several torches being lit change the moment from one of quiet affection to one of anxiety, and they find themselves having to hurry, for they’re in no position to handle any sort of confrontation, and whatever escape Arya is planning must be enacted, and fast. 

Her head turns toward the torches, calculating their distance, and then with an uttered command of _stay here_ she lopes away with long, smooth strides, her silhouette quickly fading into the darkness of the night.

Legs shaking, Eragon settles on a small patch of nearby grass to wait, his labored breaths sending white-frost spirals from his lips. Restlessness is just beginning to set in when she returns a handful of minutes later, two stolen horses in tow.

A soft mental prod sends one of the mounts to where Eragon is seated, its head dipping down to nuzzle his side. The other mare, totally at-ease, nickers softly as Arya moves to stand beside him.

Eragon struggles to his feet, and before he can even make the attempt with what little strength exists in his body, Arya, after signaling for her horse to remain where it is, bodily hoists him into his saddle. He feels his face and ears redden a little more with embarrassment, but concedes it necessary. 

_Maybe mortification will be this figment’s theme,_ reflects Eragon, torn between horror and amusement. 

Arya’s bright gaze alights on him once more, noting the quirk to his lips, but says nothing, only climbs into her own saddle and nudges both horses into a trot with another touch from her mind. 

The moderate pace, thankfully, is gentle enough for his newly healed injuries to tolerate, and they make surprisingly good time, the countryside leisurely blurring past with the hours. 

By the time they hear the distant blare of trumpets, they’ve managed to put many leagues between themselves and Urû'baen.

Arya whips around, hair flying at the noise. She sits alert, keenly searching the shadows as if expecting a shade to appear out of thin air. 

Although the company of mounted soldiers are surely approaching, and most likely gaining on them, Eragon doesn’t react, and continues to face forward, gaze expectant.

_Things are about to get interesting, at least._

“We had best move from the road,” Arya announces in the ensuing silence. “They’re aware of your escape, and in your condition we cannot risk an encounter with Galbatorix’s men. At best, we have an hour’s lead on them, but they’re moving fast.” 

Eragon grunts, well-aware of the ending in store for him at the end of this vision, and not in any sort of hurry to meet it. 

When he does not respond further, Arya takes the initiative, and without further discussion, leads the horses toward a grove of nearby trees. They obediently angle away from the road, and head into the refuge of the treeline.

In Eragon’s opinion, this is the worst part. The _waiting._ Of all the tortures invented, anticipation was definitely the most difficult to bear, for he has no power to alleviate it. 

He shifts, on-edge, his apprehension soon morphing into irritation.

_Oh, just get on with it!_

Upon seeing the state of the forest floor, Arya dismounts to help the horses navigate the tangled roots and underbrush. Eragon continues on horseback, and with his added height, soon spies a small clearing only a short distance away in which they may take refuge. He calls Arya’s attention to it, and they spur the horses in that direction, the dry, sparse grass crunching underfoot as they go. 

Upon reaching the glade, they see that it is wide enough to accommodate the horses, but only just so, and if fortune smiles upon them, the men may very well overlook it. 

Eragon rolls his eyes at the thought.

 _Mortification and anticipation. A most horrid combination,_ he muses _._

Having experienced this near-exact scenario an uncountable number of times, he knows, in his gut, that there’s no way the men will overlook it.

Still, Eragon wordlessly dismounts and goes to stand beside Arya, his expression blank and almost bored. He’s exhausted, and wishing, of all places, that he was beside the warm brazier in his cell. There, at least it’s warm enough that he wouldn’t feel the effects of his fever. 

He sighs. _Soon._

Glancing around, he watches as Arya realizes that other than the vegetation, there’s not much in the way of actual cover.

He sighs again. _Now for a clever reference to the past…_

“We could dig a hole with magic, cover the top with brush, and hide in it until they leave?” asks Arya, the smallest upturn to her lips. 

Eragon makes the expected reply. “What would we do with the excess dirt? They’d think they had discovered the largest badger den in existence.” His voice is monotone, the words from their last trek through the empire seeming to echo through him. 

“What other options do we have?” She asks, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind one of her pointed ears. 

Resigned, Eragon crosses his arms, and waits for Arya, who with a fluid gesture and a few choice words in the old tongue, magically reshapes the world to better suit their needs. The dirt before them becomes as malleable as wet clay, and soon a deep depression forms in the ground. 

They both sidle to the edge of their badger den, glancing into its shallow depths. The mud disgustingly slurps at his ankles as they descend, and though Eragon has to grasp Arya’s shoulder more than once to prevent himself from falling, they eventually reach the floor below. The horses, however, even with coaxing and murmured encouragement, refuse to climb down of their own volition, so Arya is forced to lift them inside by magic. 

They’ve just finished draping the discarded branches and foliage over the entrance above when the sound of the mounted company approaching becomes audible. 

Sitting in one of the muddy corners, Eragon can feel the vibrations of the men’s approach in his fingertips. If they’re not within earshot by now, they will be soon. 

He sighs, a third, final time before standing up. 

_Enough is enough._

He can feel Arya staring at him, but finds he doesn’t care. 

It’s instant, and abrupt, and suddenly he is screaming. Not in the direction of the men, but at the sky: 

“Just end this, blast you! This one has gone on long enough. Stop picking through my mind for interesting details like some vulture and just _get on with it._ Face me yourself, you spineless, maggot-ridden, cur!” 

“Eragon!-" says Arya, shocked by his outburst. She jumps to her feet beside him, grabbing for his hands, but he predicts this, and manages to slip away for a brief moment, still yelling. Desperate to silence him before he can reveal their position, she grasps frantically at his face, trying to cover his mouth with her palms. 

An instant later she catches hold of one of his arms, her grip like iron, yet he still continues to struggle, endeavoring to slip from her grasp once more. “Stop this! We’ll be heard!”

He attempts to push her away with his free hand, but is only somewhat successful, and with his face still to the sky, he screams. “I know this is you! You can’t-” 

Arya is able to control him enough to get a solid grip on his opposite shoulder, and spins him to face her. Then, with one smooth movement, she hooks her leg behind Eragon’s calf and _pulls,_ sending him easily to the soft earth. He falls silent as the wind is knocked out of him. 

As quick as a whip, and before he can even begin to recover, Arya drops to the mud floor beside him, and wrestles him flat. Eragon’s movements, uncoordinated and wild, allow her to easily swing a leg over and straddle his waist. After a few seconds of intense squirming on his part, and a few curses on hers, she has him subdued. A whispered word in the ancient language forcibly silences him. 

Glaring at her, Eragon lays with his arms pinioned above his head, completely immobilized.

Mud sprays everywhere as, in frustration, he repeatedly thumps the back of his head against the ground; and although no noise leaves him, he mouths the same thing, over and over again, to the beat of each muted hit. A mantra of sorts: Five Hundred and Thirty Six. 

From her place on top of him, he sees Arya’s head tilt with curiosity, reading the motion of his lips with ease. He’s still fidgeting uselessly when the sound of the retreating horses fully fades. 

“I’m not freeing you until you tell me what’s wrong with you,” she says in the ancient language, releasing him from his silence, her stare icy. 

For a moment, he tries to squirm out of her line of sight, but fails. Joining her in the same tongue, he says, “Arya, let me _up. I’m fine.”_

The half-truth falls from his lips confidently enough, but her eyes narrow and her grip tightens slightly in warning. “I am not asking of your physical well-being; I know my healing was sound. I’m asking if you’re sound of mind and spirit. You could have killed us Eragon, and I want to know why. Now, tell me the whole truth!”

Safe in the knowledge that he has been able to speak falsehoods in past illusions, he tries to lie. His throat, however, rebels against him, constricting painfully, and suddenly he’s choking on the words that refuse to come out. 

His heart jumps, and for a moment he finds himself questioning the one thing he has known to be true. _There is no integrity to this world,_ he reminds himself. _You have no control._ But the doubt niggling at the back of his mind is gaining traction, and he finds it hard to ignore.

Arya’s words bring him back to the present. 

“I’m quite comfortable here, Eragon,” she says, shifting slightly to better constrain the movements of his lower half. “And I’m willing to wait however long it takes until you tell me.

He groans, his scowl deepening. He does not wish to explain the reasoning behind his actions, for he is uncertain what about the circumstances has changed, but as always, she’s given him no room to wiggle, literally or figuratively. 

Eragon lets out a long breath before conceding defeat, knowing that this will likely be his first binding oath in a long while. “I promise to tell you the whole truth…. Once we make camp for the night. I won’t do it pinned helpless to a mud floor.”

She considers for a moment, then, apparently satisfied by his promise, swings off him. Rising to her full height, she brushes off what little dirt remains on her clothing, then sticks out her hand to help him up. Glaring, he grabs it with his muck-stained fingers, and pulls himself to standing. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He’s still grumbling as they go to leave, a new layer added to his already significant discomfort. 

He can’t help himself from investigating his newly arisen suspicions, and as he does, he grudgingly, finds himself impressed by the potential intricacy of this contrived reality, the consistency of all the many, individual elements of this creation. 

These, he continues to ponder as they begin their climb out of the den.

The exit process, though just as messy, at least provides less challenges. The horses have an easier time with the ascent, and within a fraction of the time that they needed for entry, they are back on the trail and ready to continue on their way.

Eragon, dreading the coming conversation, also feels torn between the stirrings of panic festering in his core and the intrigue of some variation in what, in the past, had been drearily repetitive. 

Still ruminating, Eragon climbs into his saddle. The action, while also lacking all grace and coordination, succeeds in smearing mud everywhere, and sends him even deeper into a foul mood. 

Arya, well aware of his irritation, allows for his indignation to fade before attempting conversation, and as a result, they ride in companionable silence for a span of minutes. 

The moon, by the time Eragon’s frown has relaxed, has fully risen overhead, casting a silvery light on themselves and their surroundings. 

With his anger too goes all his energy, and he can feel the exact moment when the adrenaline that had been keeping him upright fades. Collapsing inward, he slumps in his saddle, growing exhaustion evident on his features. 

_Please let this end quickly,_ he prays, imploringly to the powers that be. _Please, one day, let me escape this._

Inspecting his face, Arya, sympathetic to the pain clear in his features, again enters the minds of both of their horses, and directs them toward a lone tree that has the potential to serve as an effective shelter. 

Eragon’s eyes are half-closed by the time they arrive, but a light prod from one of Arya’s fingers is all it takes to return him to full consciousness, and after a few owlish blinks, he slides bonelessly from his saddle. 

“This is far enough. We can make camp here.” 

_I promise to tell you the whole truth…. Once we make camp for the night._

Anticipation and anxiety flutter so strongly in his stomach that he barely feels the jolt that travels up his spine as he lands. 

“Can you start the fire? While I get us food?” Arya asks, already partially hidden in the shadows. 

Eragon stops to consider, his fingers threading through his mud-crusted hair. But after a brief pause he nods in assent. “It’ll be slow-going, because I don’t have magic in this one, but I can do it.” 

She inclines her head, deciding not to comment on his odd choice of words, and shortly, heading into the surrounding darkness, she leaves to gather their supper.

Eragon, meanwhile, spends the time alone collecting enough wood for kindling. Then, using a combination of friction and luck, he manages to coax the few sparks into a true flame. 

Pleased at what he was allowed to accomplish, he leans back on his elbows and stretches out his legs, warming himself by the growing flames, and letting his eyes drift shut.

He focuses on the sound of the crackling fire, the fizzing hiss of the sparks as they fly upward _._

Somewhere in the darkness around their camp, audible even over the sizzling of the flames, he hears a wolf howl. The sound has not yet faded into silence when, from various locations across the plains, a score of other wolves answer, raising their voices in a discordant melody. The eerie singing makes cold sweat spring up over Eragon’s entire body, and within seconds he feels the wave of panic that has been steadily building ever since he left the Hall of the Soothsayer swallow him whole.

_Nobody escapes unless I allow it._

* * *

The meager supply of sticks Eragon had gathered to start the fire are nearly reduced to ash by the time Arya returns, a fresh bundle of firewood in her arms, her pockets filled to the brim with a collection of roots, seeds and greens. 

Knowing Eragon’s uncanny ability to attract danger when left unsupervised, she had hurried through the tasks, her reluctance to leave him while in such a clearly fragile mental and emotional state similarly increasing her speed. 

This may explain why, when she does slip into the glowing circle of their campfire, she is not entirely surprised to find him in the state that she does. 

Rocking slightly back and forth, his legs curled tightly to his chest, Eragon sits by the fire, uncomprehending to the world around him. 

The wood falls from her arms, and abandoning her preparations, she kneels beside him, fearing his still-healing injuries have been aggravated. “Are you hurt?”

She grabs his arm.

When no response is forthcoming, she inches closer to examine him more thoroughly.

He stills at the initial touch, but seems to permit it, some of the agitation draining from his face. 

Her fingers trail efficiently over the dark bruises covering nearly every inch, checking for soreness and breaks in the skin. From personal experience she knows they will take weeks to fade. 

Lifting the edge of his tunic, she spies an oozing burn on the side of his torso that she must have missed in their rush to escape, and promptly heals it. For a moment, she too relaxes, confident that what she perceived to be urgent is now handled. 

But then she glimpses the stark prominence of his ribs, and her vision and thoughts narrow, now only able to see just how _thin_ he has become.

Eragon shifts, chin on his knees, avoiding her eyes as if her awareness of his suffering has brought it to the forefront of his own mind. 

Gazing at the fire, he commences to his rocking once more, lips moving as he does. She leans in closer to catch the tail end of his words. “That's all this is... tomorrow It’ll be… seven...” he mumbles. 

“Eragon,” she breathes softly. “What can I do?”

He gives her a weak smile, his eyes- full of broken blood vessels- opening briefly, but not making direct contact. 

“Just having you here is nice. Familiar. Comforting. Even if it’s not-” He breaks off, his gaze turning glassy and unfocused before he starts again. “I’m impressed by all the... details this time. Normally not all of it is right. It scares me, in truth. How well this one is done. I can’t tell-” 

His voice cuts out with another small shudder and a whisper that this time she does not catch. His hands tighten reflexively where they now rest on his knees, and he falls silent once more, nostrils flaring with the speed of his breathing. 

Arya waits for him to calm again before pressing further, voice soothing: “I would let you keep your silence if I knew it would help, but I know better. So, I cry your pardon for the distress this may cause, but I cannot and will not let the matter rest. I need you to tell me the whole truth, as you swore you would.” 

Eragon flinches, as if hit, recoiling inward, a blank expression wiping over his features. “I- I don’t...”

_A drawn bow may just as easily snap and injure the archer as it may send the arrow flying._

“ _Tell me,_ Eragon.” 

Silence reigns for a quarter of an hour before he does, and when he finally utters the truth, it’s with a hushed tone so quiet it’s barely distinguishable from the crackle of the fire.

“None of this is real, Arya. Not you, not this-” he gestures at the world around them. “This is just Galbatorix’s latest attempt to break me. The five hundred and thirty sixth attempt.”

 _Oh._

He continues, then, rambling slightly, as if scared that if he stops he won’t be able to regain the momentum. “This isn’t our first time, either, you know. Here. We’ve been in this situation in so many different ways, in so many different settings. _I just wanted it to stop._ I never have control over when or how this ends and _I just want this to be over.”_

Arya suddenly realizes he is crying, not in grief, but from an anger and emotional exhaustion so strong it’s transformed; thick tears roll from the outer corners of his eyes, down his temples, leaving clean streaks on his mud-splattered face. By the stars, his tears appear like rivers of silvered glass. 

…."And you aren’t really here, so what we—“ His voice cracks and he falls silent once more, trying to regain his composure.

Switching to the ancient language, hoping to bolster what he doesn’t dare accept, she asserts, “I promise you that this is re-”

Without warning, his head snaps up, eyes flashing, and his expression transforms to one of pure fury. He points accusingly at her. “ _Don’t.”_

Then, for the second time that night, he’s screaming at the heavens, face upturned to the sky. “You promised you wouldn’t lie to me. Do you so easily go back on your word!?” 

He turns once more to face her. _“Don’t._ Don’t you _dare_ give me hope only for it to be snatched away when I wake up on that slab. I- I can’t…” All vitality seems to drain out of him, and he sags to the ground, hands pulling at strands of his grimy hair. His face, pressed to the top of his knees, muffles his voice. “Even after all I’ve endured, _that_ would be the thing that finally breaks me. So please, Arya, don’t. You have no way to prove to me that this is real. Not in any way that I can permit.”

She pauses so his breathing can normalize, before continuing.

“You know as well as I that the hardest thing to mimic is the touch of a mind. If you’re willing, I could briefly touch yours so you could see for yourself that I’m real,” she intones, voice gentle.

One leg slightly outstretched, gaze pensive, she sits in a loose mimic of his position, waiting. Never lifting her eyes from the clump of burning branches, she holds her tongue, hoping he’ll fill the silence with time. 

And he does. 

Eragon smiles sadly. “I do know that. But I can’t risk opening myself to you when Galbatorix will use any vulnerability to gain entry to my mind. And if he’s behind all of this, which he is, it would be too much of a gamble, even if doing so would help end this suffering.” 

She frowns but doesn’t interrupt. 

“Furthermore, the hardest thing to mimic may be the touch of someone’s mind, but Galbatorix is adept at the art, and perfected yours after only a handful attempts. I’m not even sure when I lost the ability to differentiate between reality and illusion,” reflects Eragon, eyes downcast. Then he shrugs, expression becoming determined. “It does not matter. All I wish now is that I’m gifted with one last image of Saphira, even if it is a hallucination, to say goodbye.”

Arya’s eyes fill with tears, and with the cuff of her sleeve, she dabs at them, drying her face before he can see. She gives herself a minute to regain her composure before attempting to speak again. 

“You say he became adept at mimicking _my mind._ How many was I in that he was able to accomplish that?” She asks, dreading the answer. 

Gaze wistful, but faltering, he murmurs his reply. “He knows how I care for you, Arya.”

Horror settles in her gut at the words.

“How many was I in?” she repeats.

“All of them. You’ve been in every single one.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *plays kazoo badly* it's a mENTAL BREAKDOWN! 
> 
> This was a MONSTER of a chapter to write, and I can't say I'm entirely happy with it, but it does the job. 
> 
> If y'all have questions as to what happened in this chapter or any other, leave them in the comments. :)
> 
> EDIT: 10/15/20 I've had to scrap the next chapter and start over, so it's going to take a few days.


	5. Evasion Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it OOC or is it character growth? Angst to fluff so sudden it'll give you whiplash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, life happened. All mistakes are mine. As always, Kudos appreciated, comments adored.

Eragon couldn’t decide if the weather was affecting their mood, or their mood affecting the weather. Though the odds swayed in favor of the former, after having been forced into a world of unrestrained fantasy where natural laws held no weight, he felt that such a question still had its merit. 

At present, the conditions felt as temperamental as their conversation: ranging from tranquil and still, to lucid and animated, to blustery and irate; the slight breeze of a few hours ago had since morphed into what could easily be classified as a veritable storm, the rain battering the grass with the force of hurtled glass shards, shredding the earth below. Gale-strength winds howl in the spaces between shouted words, and with each gusty strike, often accompanied by a clap of thunder, shocks of flame are thrown from their campfire and into the air, sending twisting manes of sparks trailing off into the darkness. 

Despite the mercilessness of the rain, the intensity of their conversation does not abate, and though their voices are unable to overpower the booms of thunder, and are carried off, dampened quickly with the combined noise of the downpour and wind, they continue arguing. 

During one of the few moments of quiet stillness, Eragon sits with a huff, hunching his shoulders and pulling the collar of his now relatively clean tunic close around his neck, a pronounced grimace on his face. Chewing on a dandelion stem, he glares, irritated by the trajectory of their discussion thus far. “I’m not  _ mad, _ Arya. I know in my heart that this is a hallucination!”

The elf in question sets down the remains of her own meal before returning the look, brushing dripping strands of hair out of her face as she does. 

“I never said you were. Insane, that is.” Her tone is diplomatic, even-tempered, but the light in her eyes reveals her growing irritation. She throws another branch into the fire, a fresh burst of crackling flame shooting into the air. “But even the heart can be led astray.” 

A screaming gust of wind cuts off what would have otherwise been an ill-tempered, careless retort. Eragon gnashes his teeth, effectively pulverizing the dandelion in his mouth, and attempts to regain control of his building annoyance as he waits for the current to slow. When it does, it is only with great effort that he manages to speak calmly at all. “The heart can not so easily be led astray when the brain is not only in agreement but  _ leading _ as well. I am capable of observing the world around me and drawing a logical conclusion.”

A flash of lightning illuminates their camp, and briefly, Eragon discerns a look of displeasure and anger on Arya’s face, but by the time the light begins to fade it has transformed, the expressionless mask fully in place when the shadows encroach once more. 

“You forget that I of all people understand what you’re going through,” she says, voice steel-edged. Her piercing eyes hold his until he’s forced to avert his gaze. Then, with the utmost patience, as if worried her meaning will be muddled with any additional speed, she asks slowly, “Do you remember what I told you during our last journey through the empire? About my own captivity and rescue?” 

Still looking down, he mumbles grudgingly in reply. “That it was such an improbable affair, you thought you did go mad and had imagined everything since?”

“Exactly! I say this not to question your judgement, but to remind you that even those with many years of experience are susceptible to such a deception.” 

His temper flares in turn, and burning with frustrated energy, Eragon shifts, settling cross legged on the ground. Her tact and diplomatic exterior difficult to mimic, he replies a little too sharply. “But age and wisdom do not determine success in this matter. You were able to draw the correct conclusion that what you saw was real by  _ observing _ that which was around you. As have I.” He leans forward, enunciating every word carefully, much as she had done to him. “Everything I’ve been shown by Galbatorix thus far has been picked from my brain, my memories.  _ I am not mad _ . The fact that you’re here right now proves this isn’t real.”

A second flash highlights Arya’s face. Though she’s visibly thrown by his words, head tilting in confusion before her eyes narrow suspiciously, she covers it well, and with deceptive calmness and control she leans over and picks up a discarded grass frond that has fallen within the borders of their camp. Fiddling with it, she asks quietly, “And why am I here?” 

Expression pinched, Eragon tries to prevent his tone from becoming even more edged. “Because it is the only logical conclusion!” He bites out, throat painfully tight. “Not only did you swear when we returned from my attack on Helgrind that you would rescue me if I had been captured, but no other outcome would make rational sense- a fact that Galbatorix is well-aware of and would be remiss not to exploit!” 

She pauses for a moment, considering his words. Then looking downward, she rubs at her brow as if to ward off a headache, the frond brushing her temples, and breathes out, “Why must everything be so difficult with you Eragon? Your… evidence that this is a hallucination is that it is indistinguishable from reality? That nobody else would try to rescue you?”

“Yes! That nobody else _could!”_ He says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. A sudden clap of thunder seems to punctuate his statement.“ Galbatorix not only spent hundreds of trials perfecting his illusions, making them believable, but he took the time to make them believable for _me_ specifically _._ To make them indistinguishable from reality for _me._ Everything he used, every little detail, he pulled from my mind, my memories.” Eragon crosses his arms. “Even in the beginning, when you were accompanied by others, you were only ever in the company of those of which I had strong memories. Memories with enough information to enable Galbatorix to create realistic visions. Do you see?” 

Arya remains silent, the only noticeable fracture in her composure being the impatient tapping of her long nails on the dusty ground. Her eyebrows draw sharply together in thought, the grass strand momentarily forgotten. 

“That’s how I was able to notice the deception!” Eragon exclaims, tilting his head skyward, speaking to those he knows are observing as well. “Who would bring Saphira when she would be so easily seen? Or Roran when his only weapon against an untold number of enemies is a dull hammer? Or Murtagh when his oaths would forbid him from such a duty? You see, with each attempt that I foiled, and with every hallucination I detected, Galbatorix learned that the only outcome I would believe would contain you, and only you. But that also reinforced to  _ me _ that any delusion involving only you must be contrived. And so, although he was able to shore up the weaknesses of his visions, and make the deceptions more and more realistic, he simultaneously gave me the ability to recognize them for what they are!  _ This is not real. _ ” 

Her brows pull into an even sharper v, the increased rate of her finger tapping an audible display of her building anxiety. She makes no move to retrieve the grassblade when a sudden gust casts it too near the fire. They both watch as it burns to a crisp. Frowning, she asks, “But what was the point of showing you hallucinations of escape over and over?”

Eragon stares at the jumping flame for a span of moments, in thought, before shrugging. “Maybe it was just a means of perfecting his technique? Reinforcing that there was only one way out?” He nods hesitantly, more to himself than anyone else. “More than anything, I’d say, it was about Galbatorix refining his image of you. He had to make it convincing enough that I would not question it. Not just your physical appearance, either, but your essence. Even with hundreds of captive Eldunari at his disposal, and even taking into account that I’ve known you for only a year or so, there was still much he had to master regarding that variety of magic.” 

Hugging her knees against her chest, her chin propped on her arms, Arya falls into quiet reflection. Silence accumulates between them, stretching long enough that Eragon begins tracking the time by the slight changing of the weather; the air cools noticeably, and the dark smudge of clouds sitting overhead sprinkles them with fat, cold raindrops that roll down their necks and draw shivers to the surface of their skin. 

Lost in thought, he almost doesn’t hear her speak.

“How long?” Arya asks, breaking the silence. 

“How long’ what?”

“How long until he perfected the… deluded version of me?” The calm composure in her voice is at odds with the tension in her posture. 

He rolls his shoulders, weary from the day’s travelling, and struggles to push back his sudden tiredness. “Mmm… maybe the first hundred? As I explained, Galbatorix adapted quickly, but there were many flaws in the hallucinations that he had to overcome.” Eragon stops, taking a moment to wring out his soaked garments as he considers the question further. “With each version, each fantasy, he took the aspects I found believable, and expanded upon them. In the very first one, for example, your hair was the wrong color, and I noticed, so in the next one it was fixed. In another I beat you easily at sparring and my reaction told him how to improve for the one after that, and so on and so forth.” 

Uncurling, she turns to face him more directly, studying his face. “But they weren’t all…. Pleasant? Were they?” 

Wincing from the astuteness of her perceptions, Eragon nods, a wave of memories washing over him. “Yes,” he spits out, fear clenching his chest in an iron grip.

Her fingers are ice cold where they make contact, gripping his upper arm with bruising strength, and he startles. “I’ve travelled with you long enough to know when you’re happy, angry, in pain… or wanting to hide something, Eragon. Please tell me the full truth.”

He knew nothing less would satisfy her. The muscles in his jaw spasm as he clenches his teeth forcefully, but no sound comes out when he opens them again to speak.

“Tell me what happened,” she encourages softly. 

After holding back the dark landscape within for so long, he feels relief, finally able to expel it from his mind, even as the horrors of the past converge, and sweat collects on his brow. In a low voice, no more than a whisper, the words begin to drip out, slow at first, then all at once. “He was limited in the physical world in ways of inflicting pain, but none such limitations exist in hallucination. As he worked to shore up the weaknesses of these, mental creations, making them more difficult to tell from reality… he began discovering how to hurt me more and more effectively. I could survive the physical pain. As you did, I saw it as a test of my devotion, my duty. But then he-” 

He breaks off, licking his lips and trying to moisten his painfully dry mouth, aware that if he stops talking he very well might not be able to begin again. It’s unclear if the drop Eragon wipes from his eyes is water or tears, but his voice, at least, is steady when he next speaks, though his heartache is apparent. 

“Well, regardless, I forgive you. For what he made you do. I know it wasn’t really you then, as it isn’t really you now, but I still feel like I should say it.” 

A weight seems to lift from his chest as the last words are released into the night, and without thinking, he places his hand over hers, grasping it tightly, their fingers gently interlocking. Her hand squeezes his in reply, a comforting gesture. “What have I done, Eragon?” She asks quietly.

His countenance is impassive, though the pain in his eyes remains clear. The silence stretches for so long that Arya begins to wonder if he will ever respond, but then he chokes out: “He used you as a weapon to break me.”

Her thumb brushing over the palm of his hand, she waits for him to continue, worried that any response on her part will disrupt his momentum. 

“...And he came very, very close. At first it was fairly innocuous. You would rescue me, much as you have in this one, and we would get  _ so close  _ to reaching the Varden _ ,  _ but then it would fade, and I’d be back in that room, the cold of the stone against my back.” 

He knows she can feel his racing pulse where her thumb rests on his wrist, but perseveres nonetheless. “Afterwards, when my...  _ feelings _ for you became clear, he used those to torment me. Often, you were my torturer, wielding the iron or administering the poisons. In some of the hallucinations I watched helpless as you slayed everyone I loved. Sometimes you would die in my arms, and I would realize suddenly it was I who had been wielding the knife. It took awhile for Galbatorix to hit on the right combination of emotional pain, but once he found it, he became an artist at inflicting suffering.” He laughs, humorlessly. “It was painfully real, and all too believable. You were a most effective weapon, Arya. But I forgive you.” 

Eragon turns, searching her face in the absence of any sort of reaction, and finds that her expression has become one of enigmatic observation: a beautiful but impenetrable mask concealing her thoughts and feelings. The ache that had since taken residence in his chest worsens, and, concerned that he has revealed too much, he twists the edge of his tunic between his fingers, worrying at the edge of the fabric until he’s nearly succeeded in tearing a hole in it. 

He’s just beginning to rise, wanting to  _ move,  _ to pace around their nest of grass, to calm himself in whatever way he can, when she stirs.

Turning to him, the motion tugging her hand from his grasp, she draws him toward her, briefly pausing to confirm that the touch is wanted, but wholly aware of just how desperately he needs it. 

Eragon all but collapses into her arms, exhausted, the warmth of the embrace causing him to shudder, not in fear or discomfort, but in total surrender as his emotional walls crumble. She eyes him carefully where his head rests on her shoulder, and thus both feels and sees when his shoulders begin shaking, his breaths coming out in shuddering gasps. Whispering back, her lips pressed to his temple, she breathes out, “I’m sorry,” and gently tightens her grip, sensing the exact moment that he relaxes even more boneless against her, melting within the safety of her arms, in the indescribable base comfort of companionship and touch. 

There is no romance, no passion to the kiss she presses to the top of his head, his brow, only quiet affection and a desire for tenderness. The embers of the fire have long gone out when he finally moves, her muttered promise of “I’ll prove this is real” prompting him to pull away.

Body slumping, he lets out a shaky laugh, and wipes at his eyes with stained shirtsleeves when he thinks she isn’t looking. “Can you make a light? I still can’t access my magic.”

“Brisingr,” she commands, and a soft green werelight illuminates the area, casting odd-angled shadows that highlight the paleness of his face, and the drawn, haunted look in his eyes. 

A small plume of dust spews upward as Eragon gets to his feet, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Right,” he says, offering Arya a hand that she ignores because she is staring curiously at him. “Might as well get this started.” 

She stands, posture stiff and muscles rigid, the lines between her eyes deepening when he requests to see her sword. 

“For what exactly do you need my blade?” she asks, slowly unsheathing it from where it hangs at her hip, hesitant.

Eragon puts his hand out in silent entreaty. “I can prove to you this isn’t real just by handling it,” he replies in the ancient language.

Wary, but intrigued, she hands it to him, pommel first. 

Accepting it, he spins the blade gracefully with practiced ease, the steel flashing in the moonlight, looking self-assured and confident. 

Arya has just begun to relax, when, without any further warning, he turns it on himself, the point pressed against his tunic. Her eyes widen in distress, but she’s not fast enough, and in horror she watches as he plunges it a little further inwards, a small bloodstain appearing almost instantly, spreading outward like the petals of a flower. 

Eragon, although he feels he hasn’t yet made his point, is not entirely surprised when, for the second time that night, ends up on the ground. 

With instinctive speed and accuracy, she disarms him, throwing the sword out of reach and sweeping both legs out from under him with one of her own. The collar of his shirtfront tugs at his throat as she grabs the fabric near his torso and uses it to control his fall. Depositing him on the earthen floor, she heals the wound with a brusque order before straddling him and securing his hands to the dirt with her knees. He begins chuckling. 

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says, grinning upwards, amused at himself.

She glares, nails digging into his forearm. “I will not allow you to hurt yourself in such a way.”

“How else am I supposed to wake up?” He replies, smile all but wiping from his face. “I’ve... lingered in this one, allowed myself to bask in the relief from the pain; but I can’t spare a moment more. Not when I know it’ll just hurt me later, knowing what I’ll never have. Let me up. I’ll find a different way out of this.” 

Splotches of color appear high on her cheeks, and she blows out a noisy breath. Pinning him with a look, her emerald eyes seeming to dissect his soul, he shivers.“Will you attempt to harm yourself again?” She asks, expression fierce. 

“Neither the Eldunari nor Galbatorix would have let me die when so much energy and effort has been expended to make these hallucinations.” Her gaze hardens, and he finds himself unable to look at her directly, feeling a little like a chastised child.

Firmly grabbing his chin, she swivels his head toward her, forcing him to make eye contact. “There are simpler and more eloquent ways of testing such a notion.”

“Such as?” 

Her head tips a little closer, eyes blazing. “I’m not letting you up until you swear to me you will not try such a thing again.”

“Fine,” he returns stubbornly, feeling petulant. “This is as comfortable a spot as any. Go ahead.” Chin thrust defiantly upward, he nods his assent to continue. 

Though her persisting irritation is clear on her face, it’s also plain to Eragon in the startled, amused noise that escapes her that she is, at the very least, a little entertained by his behavior. 

“Fine.” she repeats, barely refraining from rolling her eyes at his juvenility. “If you want to act like a child, I’ll treat you like one.”

His lips purse upon hearing her remark, but he doesn’t reply, only raising a curved eyebrow. when she returns her gaze to him, he perceives a subtle, but unknown emotion sparkling within.

Just as quickly, it vanishes, and before he can put more thought into identifying the emotion, she’s already picked up the thread of her narrative. 

“You are correct that maintaining such an illusion is supremely difficult and requires vast amounts of energy and concentration,” she says, nodding. “However, there are easier ways of examining its authenticity that do not require you to risk your life.”

Eragon bridles at the admonishment, brow furrowing, but doesn’t interrupt. 

“For example, with touch,” she adds. “Capturing all the nuances of sensation in a hallucination is nearly impossible; it is much easier for the spellcaster to embody the base elements of the desired sensation and from there regulate its intensity to make it more appropriate for the situation at hand. Have you noticed this? For me, illusions often felt…one-dimensional. Overly simplistic. Superficial.” 

Eragon chews on his lip for a moment before responding.

“Yes.” he admits unwillingly, flinching at the memory. “Especially with pain. Everything  _ burned _ . It would become more or less potent depending on the intensity of the scene, but it was always the same.”

“Precisely,” she says, face serious, but eyes suspiciously bright. “It’s difficult for the spellcaster to both refine the experience and gauge  _ how _ the pain should feel in such specific scenarios, especially given that individual perceptions vary widely.” 

A strand of her long hair grazes his nose, and with his hands secured, he’s forced to bury his face in his shoulder to prevent a sneeze.

“Thankfully,” she explains, green eyes sparkling impishly. “Testing for such a flaw is much easier. You simply expose yourself to a number of sensations that produce a range of subtle, but distinctive experiences that can be used to determine the truth. For example-” 

She pinches him sharply on the forearm. 

“Hey!”

Her lips twitch upward, nearly imperceptibly, but he notices and levels a glare at her. It only seems to heighten her amusement. He clings to his sour mood, stubborn, but her jesting affects him, and without his permission he feels his spirits lift. 

“See?” Arya says, “That compared with-” she flicks him lightly on the forehead, the sharp clack of nail on skin stunning him for a moment- “feels different.”

“ _ Ow! _ ” he exclaims in startled protest, unsuccessfully trying to pull his hands from where they’re pinned under her knees. He presses his lips together to keep himself from smiling. 

“-or even,” She continues, lips twitching when the poke aimed at the fleshy part of his stomach elicits an involuntary spasm, and a high pitched  _ squawk,  _ neither of which escape her notice.

Her lips curve into a warm smile, and this time, he can’t stop his own from stretching across his face.

“Oh now you’re just messing with me,” Eragon chuckles, not at all liking the sudden devilish glint in her eyes.

Her grin transforms into a smirk. “Examining many forms of touch will help validate that you have drawn the correct conclusion,” she informs him.

“What are yo- AH!”

Her devious, nimble fingers attach to his midsection, scribbling and plying nibbling pinches all along his stomach and rib cage; the playful torment sends him almost instantly into hysterics. 

Eragon screeches once from the strength of his laughter before dissolving into, quite frankly, precious childish giggling. “ _ Arya!”  _

Beaming, her fingers slow but don’t stop, and scritching lightly, she sends the sounds of his unrestrained mirth booming across the empty plain.

Eragon’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and with his head tipped back against the dusty ground from the throws of his laughter, he can barely hear her next question.

“So have I convinced you that this is real?” she asks, stilling her hands at last.

He takes a moment for his giggles to subside, breathing deeply. “If anything you’ve convinced me of the opposite. You are never this… teasing.”

She laughs softly for a moment. “Elves may not incline toward the open displays of friendship that humans and dwarves favor, and I have always been of a solitary disposition, but still, I do not view myself as entirely an elf.” Then, quieter, her teeth flashing as she smiles widely. “And you are also the closest friend that I have, so I think I’m entitled to some teasing. You know me better than anyone alive-”

Her eyes brighten. “-And that gives me a new idea.”

Releasing his hands, she moves to sit beside him only a few inches away, and motions for him to sit up. He does, quirking his eyebrows at her in a silent question all the while, and she pulls him with her, rising to full height. 

“We have travelled much together, you and I. Although we have known each other only a short span of years, I would dare say you know me well enough to tell if Galbatorix had distorted my image or my character.”

The pause is mercilessly brief before he inclines his head in agreement. 

“So look well, and see that what I say is the truth.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Eragon hesitates before responding. “...assuming that I don’t find anything wrong.”

She grabs his hands and tugging gently, beckons him closer. “Yes,” she says, a little smug. “assuming that you don’t find anything wrong.” 

For a long while he examines her face, her eyes. “You’d be surprised by how much they got wrong in the beginning. The first Arya had blue eyes and looked human,” he mumbles, lost in the concentration of the task. His gaze shifts to her hands, and she lifts them to show him her collections of scars, the small mark at the base of her right thumb that is the only remaining visible sign of their capture and torture in Helgrind. 

He exhausts every detail he can think of, tirelessly confirming that nothing has been overlooked. The shape of her ears, the color and positioning of her yawë, the hand she favors, everything is evaluated and scrutinized. 

And everything passes his inspection.

Eragon has nearly run out of ideas when he remembers her sword and bow, and although she doesn’t hand either over, only turns them so that they are visible in the moonlight, he is still able to easily verify the small scratch on the pommel of her weapon. 

With each passing minute his unease builds, concerned by his inability to find the error in the image. 

When his movements finally cease, she asks again: “Do you believe me?”

Agitated, he runs his fingers through his hair, eyes growing haunted. “I believe…. That I have not yet found the fault in this hallucination.”

She sighs, but does not force the matter, sensing his discomfort. “I believe… that you’re too scared to hope.” Her eyes soften as she spies the prominent, dark shadows under his own. “Very well. I will lay the matter to rest until the morning.” 

Arya snaps her fingers, and the wash of light fades into oblivion. “We have talked away most of the night. It is time we rested. Dawn is fast approaching, and we must depart thereafter.” 

Their bedrolls are already unrolled and ready, and though he is drained from the happenings of the day, a spike of anxiety stops Eragon in his tracks. Feeling very young, but unable to stay silent, he confesses to Arya, “I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want to wake up back there,” and his head dips to his chest.

_ I’m afraid of waking up in a reality worse than any nightmares.  _

Her hand slips into his once more, a silent, comforting reminder that he is not alone, and she guides him to the blankets. Voice soothing, but assertive, she vows, “I will prove to you that this is real. I promise that you will wake up in the morning, right here, and that you will be reunited with Saphira by tomorrow night.” 

Their hands stay linked as they climb beneath their respective covers, fingers interlocked. Giving in to his fatigue, Eragon allows himself to slide into his waking dreams. He can barely just hear the strains of fey melody where she drifts at the periphery of his consciousness, not invading his essence but shielding him from any darkness that dare invade. Wrapped in the music of her mind that can just barely be heard, he sleeps long and deep. 

“Eka evarínya ono varda. Slytha, Eragon,” she whispers.  _ I'll watch over you. Sleep, Eragon.You are safe, and this is real.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some random notes:   
> -I headcanon that Eragon's love language is touch, so I played that up in this chapter. I also love the idea of a more open, affectionate Arya.   
> -Just... them being SOFT with each other. And playful and teasing. UGH JUST GIVE ME ALL THE FLUFF.  
> -It's a pretty silly chapter, very cracky and unrealistic but I'm sticking with it because the idea of it entertains me  
> -I've resigned myself to never being happy with the end result, though LOL. Thats just #writerlife I guess.


	6. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eragon and Arya make it back to the Varden, and Eragon is reunited with Saphira.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with this story! This is (tentatively) the last installment. Love y'all and all the wonderful feedback I've received. It has truly kept me going.

Eragon wakes to a cool hand grazing his forehead and a silken voice in his ear, and sighs, unwilling to cast off the remnants of what is surely a dream. The stone upon which he lays is uncomfortable and cold, but it’s a nuisance he’s willing to tolerate if it allows him to temporarily ignore the trials to come. 

The small spike of anxiety born from thoughts of the immediate future seems to almost instantly disappear, the guaranteed horrors of the day becoming less tangible, less immediate, when fingers begin carding through his hair, stroking his scalp. By the end of the first revolution his unease has faded to almost nothing, and within a few more he is blissfully floating, unable to open his eyes even if he wanted to and nearly purring from the sensation. 

“Your fever broke during the night,” hums a familiar voice contentedly. “That’s good.” 

He shifts to accommodate the hand now grasping at the edge of his tunic. Though it’s suspect how far his restraints can suddenly, inexplicably stretch, he doesn’t question it, enthralled as he is by the many layers of tactile sensation. The skimming fingertips raise not-unpleasant chills and goosebumps as his sleeves are nudged out of the way. 

“Your wounds are healing nicely as well. Within a day or so you will be back to full strength.” 

“Mmm,” he replies sluggishly, nuzzling upwards into the touch. 

The pressure on his scalp increases slightly, and he melts, all tension leaving his body. After being deprived of any pleasant physical contact for so long, the affection is absolute paradise, and though he knows it will likely be fleeting at best, he sends a prayer to whatever gods may exist that it continue forever. 

For an unknown span of time, he drifts, completely at peace, drawn ever-closer to the siren call of slumber. His head tips back trustingly, and he has _almost_ succumbed to sleep again when-

...it stops. The touch withdraws all at once. 

The grumbled whine of sleepy protest slips out without him realizing, drowsiness having destroyed his inhibition. He has no such excuse for his next act, however, and fumbling blindly, he extends his grasping hands in obvious entreaty for more. Though his intention is clear, his reckoning is off, and he misses entirely, feeling only the dusty scrape of his palms on the ground. 

“Eragon.” The voice is much closer now, a smile clearly audible. “It is time to get up. We had best be off.”

Waking enough to feel both disgruntled and a little embarrassed, he retreats back into the safety of his bed-roll, wishing for additional warmth and intimacy but unwilling to explicitly ask for it. Cheeks reddening, the soft bedding separating them suddenly doesn’t feel like enough of a barrier, so he flips onto his side, willing himself back into the refuge of his waking dreams. 

He thinks he may actually be able to doze off this time, but the calm is soon interrupted. Even through the blankets he can feel the pressure as two hands grip tightly on either side of his hip, and he startles. Before he can react further, though, he’s maneuvered again onto his back once more. The chill of the air hits him, the movement having caused his blankets to fall to mid-waist. Annoyed, he throws an upraised palm over his still-closed eyes. 

“Eragon,” the voice wheedles again. “Wake up. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” 

He ignores the command, feigning obliviousness, and snuggles further into the downy warmth of his blankets. It’s a short-sighted choice, that he knows, but the lure of more rest is too difficult to resist and he finds himself momentarily disregarding the retribution he knows is fast approaching.

True to form, his reckoning is prompt. The ominous warning of: “The hard way it is then,” the only thing to precede it before he’s thrown, for the second time in as many days, into unrestrained giggles. 

Soft, pin-pricks of sensation quickly grow to an insistent prodding at his torso (an irritation he initially thinks he can ignore) to something even meaner, more teasing. Fingers needle his sides, travelling along his upper ribs with fiendish accuracy, and he snorts, unable to contain the bubbles of laughter fighting to escape. Feigning sleep further becomes impossible as his shoulders shake and he squirms futilely under the playful touch. Cursing himself for not just waking upon first request, he dissolves into convulsions of mirth. 

A buzzing press of lips on his neck throws him into hiccuping giggles, and he jerks to a sitting position so fast that he almost head-butts Arya, who is sitting mere inches away, leaning over him, a broad smile on her face. 

“Oh good. You’re awake,” the elf says, brightly. “I hope that wasn’t too rude of an awakening.”

Eragon shoves good-naturedly at her shoulder, glaring in mock severity, and rubs at his still-tingling neck. “That torture should be classified as a war crime!” 

Her laughter intercepts his: cool water falling over crystal. “What it was, was effective. It woke you up, did it not?” 

His grin stretches a little wider, and rolling his eyes in amusement, he concedes the point. 

The sound of their stolen horses nearing causes them to turn. The mount Eragon rode the day before approaches, having been picketed nearby, and begins nosing at his shoulder. He reaches an arm behind him to stroke at its mane, and turning to Arya, he remarks, “We should probably send them back to their owners." 

She nods, glancing up briefly as her own approaches. Petting its side she replies, “We will send them on their way before we leave for the Varden.”

The horses begin grazing on sparse patches of grass nearby, ambling out of reach. Eragon’s arm is just starting to fall back into his lap, when, eyes widening slightly, Arya grabs his hand and twists his palm skyward. They both lean in to better see his gedwëy ignasia, now ablaze, the glowing blue light illuminating their faces. 

The realization seems to hit them in the same instant.

“Your magic has returned,” she says, satisfied.

“My magic has returned,” he repeats in shock. 

_This should not be possible._

A frown creases his face, and for a little while all he can do is stare at the silvery mark on his palm, his mind spiraling, faced with a new, unforeseen decision.

_I could determine if all of this is real by simply touching Arya’s mind. I could, I could…_

That line of thinking ends, stuttering to a stop as his hands brace on his knees with a white-knuckled grip. It takes him several minutes to come back to himself, and when he does, he finds Arya’s bright, perceptive gaze heavy on his own. Her eyes soften slightly, tenderness plain in their depths, and without knowing how, he feels certain that she understands what has just transpired in his mind. 

Eragon closes his eyes, shaking his head slightly, the natural conclusion to the thought sidling to the forefront of his mind without permission. _What if I don’t want to know the truth?_ It asks. 

A warm pressure encircles his arm, and he startles, opening his eyes. 

“Can I check the remainder of your wounds?” She asks quietly, drawing him from his reverie, her fingers wrapped carefully around his arm. “Before we leave?”

He finds it’s difficult to pull himself away from his tangled web of thoughts, but after a brief pause he nods his permission, and scoots closer. 

Her roving touch is light, almost imperceptible, and he shivers. As she reaffirms that his injuries are adequately healed for travel, Eragon wrestles with his unruly emotions, trying to convince himself to just _touch Arya’s mind_ , to confirm once and for all the authenticity of what his senses perceive-!

-but then she finishes, and the tension that had abated enough for him to _consider_ such a notion returns with a vengeance and he manages to persuade himself in the next second that waiting for Saphira is the best option.

 _I’ll… wait,_ he whispers to himself in the recesses of his brain. Then, from a darker place from within: _Coward._

Pulling away, he bends, tying the laces of his shoes in preparation for their departure. In the passing moment of calm, Eragon endeavors to cure himself of any self-doubt and remaining reservations, but from his trembling limbs and unsteady breaths he knows he is unsuccessful. 

Arya rises to full height, and with a whispered word in the ancient language, releases the two horses, sending them in the direction of their stables leagues away. 

They both watch, transfixed as the two mounts trot off into the distance, becoming ever-smaller until they’re just a smear at the edge of the horizon.

Still seated, lost in thought, Eragon almost does not notice when Arya’s mind slips into his. The faint melody grows, ensnaring his attention. Much as she had the night before, her consciousness bleeds into his own, just barely, just enough that a thread ties the two of them together. 

The fey strains are alluring, and he gasps from the contact, for even though the connection is tenuous, the sound of the music and the shape of her thoughts feels so _familiar_ and so _her._

“Eragon,” she says, bending down to lace up her own boots, eyeing him with concern. “Do I even need to say it?” 

_I promise you this is real._

He shakes his head no. 

“Then let us be off.”

And just like that, they depart, darting between trees to avoid the few scattered buildings and houses between them and their destination. Mainly, they stick to the shadows, but when they do venture out into the sunshine, fate smiles upon them and they are not met by any patrols nor lone soldiers. 

Their strength and endurance never flags, so they run for the duration of the day, not stopping for even a midday meal, only a brief pause to refill their waterskins. 

As a consequence, it is early dusk when the Varden finally comes into sight. 

Eragon and Arya stop on the crest of a low hill and study the sprawling city of gray tents that lay before them, teeming with thousands of men, horses, and smoking cookfires. Ranging for several miles around the perimeter of the camp are numerous groups of horsemen. Some are riding patrol, others are banner-carrying messengers, and others are raiding parties either setting out on or returning from a mission. Two of the patrols soon spot the pair, and after sounding signal horns, a blue fire in the sky begins to wing toward them at all possible speed. 

Bouncing on his heels, he glances at Arya, his excitement clear in his bearing. Eragon opens his mind as wide as he can, and gathering his strength, shouts _Saphira!_ sending the thought flying over the countryside toward her like a spear. 

The response is immediate, and he watches as she arches her back with a joyful bugle: _Eragon!_

They embrace with their minds, smothering each other with warm waves of love, joy, and concern. Her consciousness rushes into him like warm water. 

_Little one,_ She croons, swiftly nearing the pair. _I’m sorry that I couldn’t rescue you myself. I am-_

 _Too easy to notice,_ he finishes for her. _There’s nothing to forgive._

Eragon shields his eyes from the sun as he looks upward to where Saphira is now circling directly overhead. 

Gales of air buffet them from above, and they both watch as Saphira spreads her wings, diving downward toward the earth. Eragon nearly cries with joy at the sight.

The landing is thunderous, a crash so loud that Arya and him are forced to cover their ears. Saphira’s massive thighs and shoulders ripple as they absorb the force of the impact, the earth shuddering underneath, and Eragon too flexes his knees to absorb the jolt, but overbalances, and ends up tipping backward. Arms flailing, he falls, his head clacking painfully on the stone ground. The knock is hard enough that his vision flickers, and the sound of Saphira’s light laughter inside his mind briefly fades to nothing.

For an instant, Eragon is certain that he is _back there,_ all the old sensations and dread and terror washing through him within a fraction of a second. All he can feel is the pounding of his head, an almost percussive agony, and the chafing cold of the stone slab against his back. The ceiling overhead has an intricate design that captivates him and- wait. No. Not the ceiling, the _sky._ Why would-? 

Then just as quickly, the specter is gone, and his sight flickers again, normalizing, the moment forgotten. A quick check of himself says he’s uninjured, and he rises to his full height, smiling brightly. Saphira’s laughter returns, loud and rumbling and _joyous,_ and she closes the distance between them with three long strides. Eragon runs to meet her, throwing his arms around her scaly neck with enthusiasm. Her humming is loud in his ears, and she lifts him easily off the ground in her eagerness. Arya, a small smile tugging at her lips, follows at a more sedate pace, and places a hand on Saphira’s side. Snaking her head around Eragon, Saphira touches Arya upon the brow with the tip of her snout in thanks, a warm puff of air surrounding the trio with her exhale. Eragon turns to face the elf, who, eyes sparkling in understanding, reaches up, gingerly touching Eragon’s face where it still leans against Saphira’s neck. Looking him directly in the eye, she says fervently: “This is real. Eka Thorta Du Ilumëo.” I speak the truth”-

-So maybe he had just imagined it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author notes:  
> -I've resigned myself to never being happy with the final result, LOL, but I'm honestly not happy with how this turned out. It feels rushed, and I had a really hard time making it flow. Still, even though this chapter is not eloquently worded, it gets us from point A to B so I'll take it. Whatever gets the job done. In other words, I gave up trying to fix it. :P  
> -it's a little short, but it's how it ended up. If I have time in the future I may come back and adjust/finalize chapters.  
> -I have a weakness for fluff, apparently. All the cuddles and playfulness.  
> -Per usual, Eragon at the start still thinks he's in captivity.  
> -I think with (my headcanon that) Eragon's love language is touch, all the fluff and physical affection works, especially with the characterization growth I wanted for Arya. Compared to the IC books it's totally OOC, but IDC  
> -If it wasn't clear, I left the ending up to the reader. Did Eragon imagine the whole escape? or did Arya actually rescue him? Who knows! It's up to you. 
> 
> I have several other IC stories planned, so stay tuned! (ranging from multi-chapter works to drabbles). I love y'all. Thanks for reading, commenting, and leaving Kudos <3


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